


Blood Brawler, Shot Caller

by Jekyde, Kilter76



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Brawler AU, Brawler Jack Morrison, Equal amount of lows, Essentially our roleplay edited for your viewing pleasure, Hustler Gabriel Reyes, Illegal Activities, M/M, Many ups, Misunderstandings, Prostitution, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 21:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11388780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jekyde/pseuds/Jekyde, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kilter76/pseuds/Kilter76
Summary: Jack Morrison is a closed off, quiet man with too many scars and of too few words to explain them. Not that Gabriel really cares. He's just there to keep this stranger company.Paidcompany. No strings, no attachments, have a nice night, thanks for not getting it in my eye. At least, that's how it's always been. Until Jack.* Chapters containing explicit content will be separate and marked, they do not have to be read to further the story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jekyde and I decided to share this out seeing as people seemed interested in our AU concept after some commissioned art. So.
> 
> We're seeing how these first few parts go
> 
> Said artwork was done by ufficiosulretro - [Found Here](http://ufficiosulretro.tumblr.com/post/162547309197/commission-for-jekyde-au-in-which-jack-is-an)

How many times has he driven down this part of the city?

How many times has his car crept slowly beneath the neon shine of stop lights, the array of lamps overhead and the dazzling display of bars and clubs?

He's lost count.

But tonight he's lost nerve that shouldn't be an issue for a man that's pounded knuckles into human flesh until teeth cut through the skin and walked the street with the blood splatter still fresh on his cheek. It's like unfortunate clockwork, this chattering tension every time the open window is approached, brought on by the eyes that stare at him from beneath pretty lashes and pouted lips, gentle curves and sweet perfumes. It's the thought of touching someone that soft and warm, he's going to snap and break them beneath his hands.

Sometimes he thinks that's just what he wants and it unnerves him more, knows he needs to drive away then. Circle around a different way, drive down the block a little further.

Ultimately ends up leave the area completely, stricken by the fact.

Yet the hesitation only lasts for so long, a few weeks at most. The more he cruises by, night after night, the greater the desire, this _need,_ to fill some yawning ache with a body beneath him. Just a short time of feeling complete. At least until the end and the money changes hands, the door closes to leave him empty and alone again, nothing but the raging storm within his head, boiling underneath the skin. Because it's that short amount of time that he experiences euphoria greater than the spill of blood or the drowning at the bottom of a bottle.

And it's time to fill that void. Jack's becoming too aggressive and unpredictable, unhinged. The gentle scratching in the back of his mind that tells him he might kill the next contender just to be moved to feel something, anything.

Dangerous. Feral. Needs to be human, be touched.

It's what finds him where he is now. Shit hole of a car parked in a shit hole of a parking lot, climbing out and shrugging the jacket up a little more on broad shoulders with the leather worn and faded, soft as butter and warm against the chill that seems to always be in his bones. He doesn't walk quietly, not carrying the burden of wicked man, steps heavy as boots scratch against the sidewalk from city grit and grime. Prefers them dark to hide the blood and splashes of oil or grease. They're probably just as old as some of the pretty bodies lingering about the street and he turns his head down, hiding the bulk of the nasty scars that bisect his face with a tug of the soft fabric hood attached to the jacket.

_Could have been a real looker._

_Might have been a Prom King._

_What happened?_

_Who hurt you?_

Shoulders hitch a degree higher as rugged blues scan ahead of him, nonchalant but searching, side stepping away from those milling outside a club with their cigarettes and boisterous chatter. Knows he'd never be let into such places with their crisp dress shirts and girls with clinging minis. Maybe. Maybe years ago, fresh faced and model ready, hitting the city with big dreams and an emptier head.

Not anymore. White bleaches blond. Frown lines deeper than smiles. Dark circles that are barely kept from being obscene. Rough hands that carry more scars than skin. A voice graveled from smoking and burning alcohol.

_What happened to you?_

**I did.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Still in bed at noon.  
> Everyday is Saturday,  
> when you are a whore.”
> 
> Artwork was done by ufficiosulretro - [Found Here](http://ufficiosulretro.tumblr.com/post/162547309197/commission-for-jekyde-au-in-which-jack-is-an)

Just another hit.

Gabriel can feel the anxiousness tingling under his skin, the fine beads of sweat gathering upon his forehead. A drop trickles low, tickling against his temple to be lost in the contour of facial hair. He shifts the soft cloth upon his head, dragging it down closer to his brow as if that would hide the fleeting glances to his target, his focus. The eight ball is lingering there, just at the corner of his eye, but he wasn't done yet. Not yet.

_One more hit._

His fingers grip, tensing in a rubbing stroke that betrays his distraction. The other chuckles, murmuring something that he barely pays attention to. There's sarcasm in that tone, superiority that's mocking and condescending in one hushed breath. There's liquor upon it, the dry scent of too stale cigarettes and Vicks. The combination nearly brings a grimace to his face but he manages to keep his expression mostly placid. The stranger smirks at the trembling lick to too-dry lips. 

"Hole looks ready to me, don't you think?"

"Just shut up and do it."

"Down to business, I like that."

The sudden clatter seems to set his nerves on edge, a push of white to black, skirting ever so close but narrowly missing. His breath holds. So very close and yet...still so far. It's exhaled upon a bark of a laugh and a shove of hip to backside, shoving the other closer to the hard edge of the pool table. Every bit of nervousness sheds away with his cocky grin. "Better luck next time, sweetheart." 

One. More. Shot. 

And it's _his._

It isn't long after the sinking of the ball that he wanders out of the bar, a few hundred dollars richer. It isn't much, but it'll get him through the next couple days, at least until his John finds that he's been getting a little pool sharking money on the side. So far so good. He likes to think that as long as the man gets his cut he doesn't care where he goes for an a hour--he isn't willing to find out other wise. 

Rain is in the air, he can feel it in his bones, smell it in the ozone and damp asphalt before it's overwhelmed by bodies bathed in various perfumes and colognes. He both loved and hated this strip. On nights he needed a little more in his pocket there was the nearby club he can wander, catching the eye of someone wanting a company and a little excitement. Men and women who didn't manage to get lucky for the evening. On others, he'd rather be left alone and went through the motions to the best of his abilities. They never knew any better. Men can't fake after all, right? 

For women it was obvious who walked the streets and made their living there. A flash of thigh and presented breasts, wanton calls and heated flirtations. There was a quiet code for men like himself, displaying in ways that only those that knew what to look for would see. Back to work and with a dull orange bit of cloth dangling from the back of one pocket. Anything and everything is what is offered. Fulfill one's wishes for an hour or more...if they have the money. 

With a shoulder to a wall dark eyes skim the sidewalks, searching and studying. There was always a look to the lonely, and though his attention flickered to a few filtering out of the club, his gaze lingered upon those passing it by instead. Gabriel's stakeout outside of the club is advertising.

And Jack Morrison is out there looking to buy.

_'Dirty old man'_ rattles off in his head when eyes linger too long on a young blonde woman, forcibly turning his gaze to the side while walking forward and past her, rubbing the discomfort away with a drag of hand over frowning lips and roughed stubble. Jack knows he could tempt her with enough flashing of bills, seemingly everything is available for the right price yet there's a mental brick wall that he slams into, something immovable. So now his pace picks up a little more, shouldering someone roughly and not caring to offer a social apology. They won't say anything, they never do. They stop cold at the first sign of his face.

Violent. Angry. Brutal. Stay away.

It's written all right there wearing that worn jacket. Intimidation in broad shoulders matched by equally solid chest as though he were a man that spends his time mugging unfortunate innocents. The outward assumption that he'll kick your ass, steal your wallet and maybe you'll be lucky enough to still have teeth left over to chatter in fear with. That's what the world sees, what Jack offers for them to see by cultivating it with being paid to beat people into some semblance of pulped meat after the sun goes down.

And a little ripple of tension triggers, strikes hot and vicious. It's also settles Jack's options for tonight.

No women. 

He can't bring himself to. Not when his knuckles ache at the idea of gripping tight, the sick coil of interest at holding another down.

Except his eyes have spotted only women. And just as he plans to call it, to drown himself in a cheap bottle, the spot of orange catches his attention. So very unassuming maybe. But it's there, poked out to be seen and not haphazard stuffed into the pocket as if on the go. So Jack's steps slow, feeling hands clench inside the pockets of the jacket as he closes the distance, just enough to better see the features of the dark complexion that glows beneath the lights, the cut of a figure not hidden beneath enough layers to be _ignored_. A man much too young to be by himself and away from the activity of the swarming patrons out front...

_Christ._ What Gabriel would do for a cigarette right now. Being in that pool hall was murder. Not only was it far too stuffy and hot, but just about everyone was smoking. It tugged at him, but on nights like these he never carries a pack with him and for good reason. No alcohol, no drugs, very minimal smoking, but that's not why. Bumming one was always a good opener, something that enticed a bit of conversation. An old trick in the book but one that's rarely failed him. 

It's there on the tip of his tongue, ready to use, but nothing's lured it further. People come out in groups, couples, and none of which looked to be ready to add another to their ranks. And this is why the pool hall has become his stomping grounds, to make up for the cash lost in the lack of clients. He's not ready to turn in just yet, not when there were far too many hours left in the night.

A glance. Fleeting but purposeful in the turn of a man's head towards Gabriel, just enough to lure the eye and lock them together.

_I see you._

_Do you see me?_

That _look_ is a beacon, brief but telling, and if the glance isn't enough the near-approach speaks to Gabriel more than anything. The man is hesitant. Is he perhaps nervous and new? Possibly walking away and likely trying to convince himself to keep going. Gabriel ends up pushing from the wall then and steps around a departing cluster of party-goers to casually follow the stranger, his own curiosity getting the best of him. Never directly behind, of course, but just off to the side he approaches, a half smile upon his lips along with a partial cocking of his head. 

"Don't mind if I walk with you, do you?" A spin on the 'you look like you could use some company' cliché, a test of the waters to see if Gabriel would be ignored or sent away. It gives him a taste to figure out just who he really should offer his 'company' to. 

At the added footsteps, Jack confirms he wasn't wrong about colored fabric in the pocket. Most certainly not when he can feel the younger man trailing after him, a sixth sense when there's always a need to watch your back and constantly aware of someone possibly jumping in from any angle. And this means, so far, he's got a line. A chance. Male, young and strong. Almost thinks his dick twitches when the other speaks up and it causes Jack to breathe in a moment before stopping, allowing the other to catch up.

"How much?" Jack doesn't feel like playing games tonight, that coy back and forth as if he wasn't cruising for sex. There's some days that it sends fire through his veins, makes him feel young again to be flirting on the sly even if the other party is just going along with it. Both of them playing pretend. But that's not his mind set right now. 

_Oh. No games, alright then._ These types are always easier to deal with in Gabriel's opinion; no push and pull to try to figure out just what they want, no testing of various appearances before one--or more--is finally settled with. The stranger knows what he wants, knows what he is, and has no desire for small talk. Yes, always easier to deal with as well as being one of his favorite client types.

"Depends on what you're looking for," Gabriel begins, wandering closer to walk along at the other's side. There's a few feet between them, far enough to give the stranger space yet close enough to keep their conversation somewhat private upon the populated street. "If you're looking _for_ blow, you're chatting up the wrong person." He might as well get that out of the way. It wouldn't be the first time someone thought he was selling drugs just because he happens to be a black man on a street. "If you're looking for _a_ blow, fifty bucks. Giving or taking, condom on. Hand job, fifteen. More? Mm..." 

Gabriel side glances over toward the man, his head giving another tilt. He knows he's going on the low side of what he usually charges, but for first timers? Always give them that taste of what he can offer and at a good price so they can come back for more. "That depends on if you want a quick lay or all nighter." 

Suddenly Jack's skin itches. That low burning anxiousness returning in little idle drips like an IV the longer he's out on the street, chatting up a prostitute and getting the menu like a drink order. This is what he's reduced to. Tainted blond farm boy turned hardened thug, seen too much and done too much to fit in with everyone. Then the prostitute serves a surprise, Jack's focus broken from that creeping sensation at the unexpected offer of keeping him all night. Rare, unheard of even. It took a lot for someone to be willing to bed a stranger and stay there, digging for some social note to hold onto that doesn't make it too awkward or allows enough time for their bed partner is a psycho. 

How many have wondered if that's what he was? Quiet, deranged middle aged man who pays for sex and keeps his clothes on.

"All night." Jack doesn't realize the words are leaving his mouth until they echo back milliseconds later in his ears. _Eager, aren't you?_ At the idea of touching, being touched for more than thirty minutes. _How are you so certain he won't change his mind that shamble of a motel room? Maybe take him somewhere else, somewhere nicer for the sex worker so he doesn't see just how low on the totem pole you already are. Because who wants to fuck someone with empty bottles on the table and bloody gauze in the bathroom?_

"I've got the cash," he adds in. Too much of it if it means Jack's going to take a prostitute to a different hotel to fuck on clean sheets. Maybe twice if his stamina isn't shot from earlier in the night. Doesn't think of the blood still under his nails. 

If there's one thing Gabriel's learned in this occupation is that one can never judge a book by its cover. He's a walking example of that. Well groomed and clean cut, smooth skinned in all the right places and manicured, he could be a daddy's rich boy or a back alley thug for the right person and price. The man looks like he barely has a dollar to his name and is too shy or nervous to lift his eyes any further than the ground at his feet. He's older, he can tell by the rough of his voice, since the hood obscures his face. Ironically enough that has a twinge of unease in his stomach. There's a difference between masks that are unseen and not. 

_All night. Shit._ Honestly Gabriel was hoping that he wouldn't pick that option. Male clients usually don't. The majority of them are gay for a night, wanting to try something new; get in and get out types that leave him with a few hundred bucks and a disappointed hard on. It's difficult to say if this is the case, he's leaning toward 'no', which causes the twinge to turn into a slight drop in his stomach. He's not sure if it's uncertainty or something else entirely. "Alright then. You host. We'll chat more there." 

Jack delivers a brief, single bob of a nod before the grit scrapes under thick soled boot as he turns to head back the way he had come previously. Already his mind is wracking through the list of hotels that are nearby, from the rat infested versus the upscale and trying to remember one that was in between. Or should he spring for something nicer? Why does he care? But maybe it's the fact that he's asked for more than a quick fuck and a roll over.

But why does he _care?_ Jack never really bothered to give other prostitutes much foresight. The alleyway, the car, the cheapest rooms. But they didn't tend to look as well off as this one though either. Nice clothes, tailored maybe. Clean cut. So maybe it wouldn't hurt to throw down a little extra to spring for something nice, have a real hot shower and plush pillows. One night of selfishness. Jack needs it.

Although they've exchanged the purpose of coming together the walk back towards the Jack's car is going to be relatively silent, seeing as he's already digging into his pocket to draw out a simple set of keys with nothing more than a bottle opener and a black spade key chain on it. It's not as though his car will be difficult to spot in the lot they're approaching, not when it's described as a piece of shit even by himself since the title fits. It contains no electric locks which means Jack has to lean over to open the passenger side before the younger man can even get in. Never mind the front window is cracked or that the inside smells musty but at least nothing's died in it. At most the seats squeak and covers ripped in some places. 

And right about now Gabriel has come to the conclusion that this is definitely a quiet one. Gabriel's used to at least a little bit of small talk no matter what spectrum the person might be on; the nervous prattle just to ease uncomfortable silence, or the more confident conversation that keeps him engaged and allows him to read a person further. This one's been a closed book so far. He seems to know what he wants, a paid whore for the entirety of the night, and that's what truly matters, yeah? 

Now he just has to figure out what he wants during that time. 

With most women it's easy. Most of them want the good hard fuck that their significant others are too afraid to give them. That thrill of sleeping with a man that isn't theirs or someone they wouldn't get, or be see with, other wise. He can be their dirty little secret. There's the rare occurrence of simple catering; massage, conversation, company with a bit of heavy petting if any at all. The comforts of a caring date without the worry of putting out. 

But men..? Men are tricky. He can't remember the last time he'd been bought for anything other than indulging in the taboo. Quick and dirty, no names, no eye contact. I don't want to look at your face. I don't want to hear you. Can you sound like a woman? How much does that pretty skin bruise? The real dirty secret. Just how will he entertain someone all night when they seem adverse to small talk?

Still, the words will will be there when he needs them. Gabriel will shake it up as he's capable of doing, refusing to sit in silence in a dead air room during those moments where the body is recuperating after a round of sex. It's too awkward and it'll give him the itch to sneak out the door to find his next client. The glance over to his current client is brief for the car soon catches his attention. Just as run down as the jacket the man wears and as he passes around the back of the vehicle he spares a quick glance to the license plate. Done so more out of habit than necessity. 

_Though it is necessary, isn't it?_ Male whores were often found broken and beaten more than female ones, and usually by those men who want something different, only to be disgusted by themselves afterwards. It's a brief text that Gabriel sends off, coded in a simple message that leaves his John the plate's number. 

It's that cursory glance Jack catches outside the car that prompts him pop open the glove compartment before even reaching to open the door, instead withdrawing the short stack of bills to place it on the dash in plain sight. Five hundred in ratty bills of varying value, wouldn't be surprised if some of them are stained but that's not his concern. Just needs to show he's not fucking around. That Jack can pay for the flesh and not some bartering small time. 

Gabriel's already pocketing the phone when he finally settles in the car, dutifully ignoring the sight and scent of the interior. He's seen worse and done plenty in those places. He doesn't reach out for the money immediately, he's more focused on getting the buckle to work properly--push in the tab, hook...there we go--and when he collects the bills he riffles through them, fanning more than counting. Might be enough to pay well beyond this midnight hour. "Got a name I can call you?" 

The question causes pause in Jack's startup of the car, just a lingering hold of keys before turning them to kick the engine into life, at least, it struggles first before turning over. And Jack pulls the shifter into reverse acting as if the inquiry was never spoken at all apparently but he does clear his throat as though stalling. Only when right arm comes up behind the passenger seat to actually start the process of backing up is there a clear indication of Jack clenching and releasing his jaw, an internal debate while the vehicle creeps into movement, directing it outside of the parking spot and the low groan of putting it back into drive.

It's that telltale lapse after his question that Gabriel was certain the man might as well be screaming in the silence, taking this as a sure bet on the no names policy. They're in private now, as private as a drive can be, so maybe instead he could take that opportunity to go further over the menu, detail just what is offered for the kind of money he's willing to pay out. But, for the moment, Gabriel gives a vague sense of normality, as if the stranger isn't sitting in a car with someone he just paid to give him an exciting night, but sitting with someone that happens to need a ride. A new friend. A blind date. Anything but a low-priced 'escort'.

"Jack," comes the belated answer as they come out onto the street. Not looking to the side at the younger man in the passenger seat while navigating with ease. Considering how often he's cruised here, Jack knows just where the potholes are and the quicker way to leave the bustling walkways behind. His demeanor is still vaguely tense but the visual indicators of it slowly alters the further away they get, the clubs and bars giving way to closed shops and partial residential buildings.

"You?" An afterthought question. Social niceties dictating that name exchanges take place but he doesn't readily care for it. They're not going to see each other again after this. And even if he happens to see the man on the sidewalk again, there's a high chance that he'll just keep on walking. Not that it mattered. They cared for the color of the money rather than if he meant something that night. 

"Michael. Can call me Mike if you want. Just.. not Mikey. Sets my teeth on edge and makes me think of that Life Cereal commercial." Another moniker on his list, far and yet close to his true name. Always angels, though he's anything but. This is Small Talk. A necessary evil and it's used as and opportunity to get a glimpse of the face beneath the hood. In the low neon lights surrounding them it's difficult to tell if the man's hair is a pale blond or gray. He looks older, ragged, and he's not entirely sure if there's scars on his face or the light is again betraying him. He doesn't want to stare, not when 'Jack' might take it the wrong way. It's his eyes that truly catch his attention. Green or maybe blue, but bright all the same. 

"Michael. Easy enough," spoken to 'Michael' but not at all together. Like the first part confirmation and the second to himself. Any other indication for speech is going to be hard pressed to be found as Jack drives, eyes taking in the streets needed for a destination in mind. Ultimately, it's just another parking lot to pull into but at least it's well maintained than the strip's. Just a simple motel that's off the beaten path with soft beds and fairly nice rooms. He remembers the comforters smelled freshly cleaned and the soaps actually had names.

And so Michael it is then. Nothing too familiar and friendly, yet acknowledged that Gabriel has a name, even if it isn't his real one. Little signs and indications of someone's personality. It makes him a little more comfortable, but not by miles. He won't be comfortable until he's back at home searing his skin red beneath the partially working shower head. Someday he'll get that fixed. Maybe he'll be moving out of there when the opportunity presents and let the landlord take care of the issue.

The sight of the motel sends a mild rush through his veins, like the ring of a bell to a salivating dog. He hates that sometimes, others... It makes it easier to get himself going, especially on nights he'll be keeping company for more than a half hour. The air is cool and though it isn't fresh, it's better than the dry musk of the car's interior. He breathes it in and tucks his hands into the pockets of his thin and snug jacket. Not his favorite, but no one wants to pick up someone when they can't see some of the 'goods'. Leave it up to him and he'd be walking around in one two sizes too big and thick enough to survive in winter.

When Jack turns off the car, he waits for 'Michael' to exit out of his side before locking it and following suit as well. Keys finding their way in his pockets before giving a vague turn of his head. "You're not going to run off if I go in to get a room?"

Wouldn't be the first when Jack shows the money, lets them hold onto it. It just means he doesn't like what comes after it. Tracking them down, cornering a prostitute to get his dirty money back and his nuts still full, maybe make up for it with a split lip or a black eye. He didn't like being played for being nice, for letting them hold a payment and feeling secure that Jack isn't trying to short change, to fuck without being charged. 

"Scouts honor," Gabriel says with a half smile pulling up the corner of his mouth and a lift of his hand, three fingers lifting in that Eagle scout promise. "Could go in with you." Though he's positive the offer will be declined, it's on the table nonetheless, just to show that he's not going any where. 

"No. No, stay here." A clearing of his throat, feeling it rough as though speaking even this small amount is new. Could be that it is, Jack doesn't make a habit of sparking conversations to handlers or whores, what few people he might designate as friends are behind bar counters or half hanging under cars like himself in a grease pit. Not much talking on his end all the same, just enough to not be rude.

There's a mental lick of Gabriel's finger and a check mark made in the air as he rightly assumes Jack's reaction to him offering to tag along. While he doesn't look the typical part of a whore--one benefit men have over women, it seems--there's no doubt that the fact nags at the back of the other's mind. That the person in the lobby is going to see 'Michael' and assume just what's going on, or worse...they've seen him with others numerous times before and know. He'd be lying if he says he hasn't seen this part of town, or this particular motel.

A parting glance is given, weighing the truth of it perhaps before moving away, making his way inside shows a comfortable lobby and a receptionist who doesn't look all that surprised at seeing someone at this hour. She's pleasant and her smile warm, prompts a return from Jack even if it's brief while he pays for a room. King size, late check out, only one key and a continental breakfast notice. The last factor is a room towards the back, one that he can access from an outside door rather than moving through the lobby again. More to the point that the prostitute can leave without ever being seen at all.

Gabriel leans back against the car, waiting in silence as he checks over his phone. There's only a few messages found there; a reminder of his reservation tomorrow, a returned message from his boss and a call from a blocked number that he promptly deletes. Another message is sent out, this time with the motel's location and estimated time of departure. He did say all night, and so he gives it until dawn. Head out, grab some food and a long shower once he got home. He'll be settling in time to watch his shows. 

Only a simple exchange of good nights pass and Jack is back outside, still half expecting the man to have bolted but finds an ease in seeing that 'Michael' is still there. Waiting as promised. A signal of the key card being lifted is the only indication for the other to follow him towards the single door, tapping the key to the reader and seeing it flash green to be opened. Politeness has Jack holding the door open, waiting until the other clears to keep moving down the hallway to the room.

"Do...do you need something from the vending machines?" 

"Hm?" That quiet is broken as he comes to pause just inside of the hallway before continuing on. At first it crosses his mind that he's speaking of the essentials but, with a smile, he goes a different direction. "Some water would be alright. There might be an bucket inside the room. Could grab that before heading off to the machines. Y'know, so you don't have to make two trips just in case the ice is there." 

"Yeah. I can do that." Another nod, agreeing with the idea because who knows, maybe they will need ice. Something cold to drink after plowing the man into the mattress, common sense dictating it to be a logical next step.

Jack's flipping and bending the key card as they walk, the nervous energy still lingering about like it always does when he picks up prostitutes. Whether it's because it's taboo or because he knows the high of desire is short lived, Jack doesn't readily know. It's better than fighting but the sensations don't last nearly as long. Bruises lingering for days over surface scratches to his back. A busted lip stinging far more than any hickeys left behind on his neck.

Gabriel wants to say more, anything that would ease that edge of tension that seems to be well into the man's bones, but he remains silent save for an idle hum in his throat. He keeps it soft enough where it's barely a vibration in the air, chasing away the silence that lingers until they reach the room's door. 

It takes a moment before there's a correct swipe to initiate the soft click of the lock disengaging, easing the door open to step inside, searching to find the first light switch he can. The lamp clicks on in the corner of the room, showing the floral bedspread and two night stands with overhead lamps on the wall. The same corner has a round table with one chair, the dresser than spans a good line of the wall, simple TV perched atop and a coffee maker on the side. Simple, easy and non descriptive.

Without a pause, the younger man wanders inside after Jack, his fingers lifting to snag at the tab his jacket's zipper and it's drawn down to open it up rather than simply shrug it off. The room is still a touch cold but Gabriel doesn't bother to turn on the heater. That would just make things uncomfortable in the end. 

"I'll get you water." He supposes at this point that leaving the 'Michael' alone in the room is no big deal if he didn't run off in the parking lot. No point, really. Most he could do is lock Jack out but he decides not to think about it while grabbing the beige plastic bucket, fitting the plastic covering inside of it. 

"Get yourself something too, yeah?" He casts over his shoulder and turns his head to catch the other's eye. 

Jack halts just a second after he turns, giving a lasting look at the man, the prostitute, in the room before offering a decisive nod and exiting to find the vending area. 

_Blue, they're definitely blue._ Without the neon lights casting their bright glow in the confines of the car, he's able to catch these little details now. His hair, his face, and the way he glances back as if that'd be the last time he'd see him. It rattles through his mind as to why, that maybe he's still having second thoughts or he's done this enough where there's always someone to jet when they get the chance. He'd be lying if he says he hasn't done it before, pocketed the money and disappeared. He had his reasons. Something 'off' that another didn't sense and found out the hard way. 

By time Jack returns, he's made himself comfortable. Shoes are toed off, stuffed with his socks and tucked just beneath the bed. His jacket is discarded, draped over the lone table chair, leaving him comfortable in the form fitting shirt. He's leaning back, reclining against his elbows, paying only half attention to the television. It's a bit of comfortable background noise. Something relaxing and familiar in an unfamiliar situation. 

The hesitation outside the door has been minor and unseen, Jack stepping back into the room with four bottles of water tucked into a bucket filled to the brim with ice. It's set down on the tray with the coffee maker, pulling one out on his way over to the bed. And rather than simply hold it out for 'Michael', he sets it down on the night stand before crossing away, finding his feet directed to the opposite side. Somehow, Jack is actively avoiding the very person he's paid to use for the night but it's the same dance for him. A tension that needs to be bled out before he can think to get comfortable, to trust himself even while pulling the zipper down on the leather jacket, a full solid metallic chorus before drawing the hood back. In one fell swoop, Jack effortlessly removes the heavy weight from his shoulder, uncaring at the thump it makes upon the floor.

The regard Gabriel gave Jack upon his arrival was brief, not so much from a lack of interest or a sign of boredom, but from the visual cues that he has subconsciously picked up. The man is nervous and restless, but not the kind of restlessness that's expected from someone that'll shell out five hundred dollars to spend the night with a paid whore. That kind of money comes from a person that knows what they want, how they want it and how often. There is the thought that most of the time would be spent having the other work up to it all and he's just paying Gabriel for time, but that assumption doesn't seem to fit.

And yet...Jack's keeping his distance as if he expects Gabriel to suddenly lunge at him rather than remain in a comfortable recline. 

A side glance is given to the water then toward Jack, following his path around the bed and practically placing it between the two of them. The sound of the television nearly tugs Gabriel's attention away again, perhaps giving the man a moment to make himself at ease but instead presses up from his forearms to his hands, he tips his head, resting his ear against the curve of his shoulder then pushes further, scooting near the bed's edge to draw himself to his feet. "What do you want to do?" A question with a question, once again testing, finding what the other expects. He could run down the menu, tell Jack the do's and do not's, though the thought doesn't cross his mind, not when his fingers are itching to touch. 

The silence is heavy in the air before the blue eyes drift back over to the younger man, stopping more at the line of his torso rather than continue up to meet his gaze. "What am I allowed to do?" 

"Hey," the word is quiet, an urging to draw Jack's eyes up again as he reaches to him, hovering his fingers tentatively before letting the pads press against the back of his arm drawing him closer. Frightened or wounded animal, he's not sure which comes to mind first. "We don't have to do anything, either. I'm yours for the night to fuck or just keep you company until dawn." The latter he'd take a smaller cut, it's only fair. It wouldn't be the first time someone backpedaled. 

So close. 'Michael's so close that Jack can feel the heat of him change the immediate area, prompting shivered bumps to raise on his skin. How long has it been since he's been near another like this? Intimate without brutality, a gentle murmur of words that isn't choked on blood. Weeks? Months? His last prostitute can barely be remembered, let alone anyone before that when Jack attempted normalcy for a brief stint. It didn't take. Back to paid single servings he went.

And when 'Michael' touches, another wire of tension actually ticks tighter, a stiffening of muscle in his shoulders and a lift of focus to look a little more on the other man than before, himself cautious and alert. Yet 'Michael' isn't afraid. Didn't shy back from the scars or register something of curious disgust at the way they marred his face. Jack is a walking example of what getting the shit kicked out of you on the daily looks like and giving it back ten fold. Such stories are spoken in the spider web of scars on his knuckles, split one too many times to be the casual bar fighter.

It's when they move closer that Jack finally takes part in being human, a roughened hand lifting to slide the pad of his thumb along the sharp line of 'Michael's cheek, not once but twice, petting until it stills just there on soft skin. Too blue eyes, tired and weary, the dark circles just barely edging towards the idea of insomnia yet still remaining so vividly bright are searching across the man's features. Strong, masculine, the curve of his lips and the set of his brows. Confident.

"You're beautiful," murmured quietly, sincerely to the point it sounds pained to be spoken. 

_Frightened or wounded animal.'_ Both come to mind. The wounded aspect is easy to see. Scars speak a story that remains unknown and made up in his elaborate imagination as he so often does. He never wants to know the truth, doesn't care to know no more than his clients would want to explore his own past or thoughts of his future. Solitary meetings that rarely have a second showing. Boxer does come to mind and there's a brief glance to Jack's ears to see if they sport the tell tale cauliflowering, or the brow the dips and lumps of various strikes, then they drift further. Eyes, cheeks, lips that speak in a rough hush.

Frightened to be touched and yet craving it. It's there in the prickled feel of skin beneath his fingertips, his own uncalloused from lack of hard work--and rigorous scraping of the tender skin during baths. Despite Jack's tension it only encourages him to step closer, albeit cautiously, into the caressing hand, into the half circle of torso and limb as the other's rough palm is brought to the low of his back, against the butter-soft feel of his shirt. 

"Takes a lot of work to keep looking this good." Gabriel's lips curl up at the corners with the gentle humor and they're soon covered as he turns his head to brush them against his palm. A tender touch, short lived in favor of returning his cheek to Jack's fingers. Having hands near his face, his neck, always sets him on edge. One good strike or grab would put him out of commission for days, doing little else but giving blow jobs in some alleyway. Looks still matter to some even with the lights cut off. 

"You want to lie down so I can get a better look at that body of yours?" He splays his fingers along a broad shoulder, brushing against the fabric of rough cotton, then down along his arm in a slow, petting caress. This isn't what Gabriel expected when he came here. It's not so disappointing, he supposes, though he is going to have to make up the difference some how, or take the blame for the man's possible change of mind if Jack chooses to shower him with compliments instead of doing anything. 

The pull from Jack's own thoughts is gradual, having been lost in the idea of touching 'Michael'. But it's the notion of laying down, conducting a platonic little dance that's the final snap of fingers to his thoughts. The hand drifts away from 'Michael's face to pet over the curve of his shoulder, pushes up the cap of his sleeve a little higher to get a better cup of his hand at the bicep. A squeeze, testing that give of firm muscle beneath soft skin and changing it into a rolling knead of fingers.

"No." A steeling of his jaw and low exhale, stripping away the low cold steel of anxiety at pretending human interaction wasn't a foreign concept, that he's willing to take what he's paid for. Intimacy, primal and true, is what Jack wants. Knowing he'll have to work twice as hard to actually make a whore feel more than that. Like a challenge to his ability to break through not only himself but someone just as closed off and distance. Coax them into that soft pocket of bliss with him rather than simply a vessel for it. "I'd rather fuck." 

_There's the line._ He was wondering just when it would be crossed and is disappointed to find that it's a lot sooner than he thought it would be. He had pictured the scenario, that Jack would lie there comfortably, letting him explore the tattoos, the scars, let him knead his hands over the entirety of his back and, little by little, venture further until he has the man like putty beneath his touch. Calm enough to try to steal a kiss from the paid whore only to be denied. Far too intimate, far too dangerous as well. He hasn't gone this long without a major health concern by being stupid and indulging even when he yearns for such a simple thing as a kiss. 

Such things are reserved for those that didn't find themselves above or beneath numerous individuals per night. Fucking is what he does and the only thing he should expect. 

It's exactly what Jack wants from him, as if finally realizing just why they're here and who-- what --he's here with. The kneading roll of fingers, tight but not painful has him assume as to how the rest of the night will go and he can't exactly say he's adverse to it. The harder the fuck the easier it is to just let himself go and be the no named piece of ass people expect him to be. His hand slips from Jack's arm, tracing against the skin then across his stomach for fingers to hook in the waistline of the paints. 

"Fuck me, then. I wanna ache come morning, Jack."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is merely the tip of the iceberg as this has been played over months and months. If it gains acceptance I'll continue to edit and splice our roleplay to be more fic friendly.
> 
> This chapter is only 50% beta-read and fic-friendly altered.
> 
> Jeky Edit: Just wanted to drop a note and give you all a huge thanks for your comments and praise! We have another chapter ready, but there needs to be one more prior to it, so we're working on that one soon.


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